


Oracular Spectacular: Charity Repost

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU from 7.04 onwards, Angst, F/M, Fluff, I'm barely angsty you guys, Romance, Smut, canon-divergent, i guess anyway - Freeform, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 10:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18938815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Remember that time Jon Snow just got bold as fuck and touched a dragon?  So does Daenerys.  Canon until 7.04, splits from there.This was originally posted in 4 chapters, but we're in one-shot land now.  Sweet, blissfully ignorant, Season 7 one-shot land.Special shoutout to xtheory - enjoy, pal!





	Oracular Spectacular: Charity Repost

**Author's Note:**

> So, the Reddit fundraiser for Emilia's charity, SameYou.org, just hit 20K! Let's keep going! Same drill as before - this is a repost of this work, originally written by me last year during our unending hiatus. Oh, how I miss those days now.
> 
> But fuck all the negative bullshit - if you read it then, or are reading it now for the first time, and you liked it, it would be fucking cool of you to donate to SameYou.org directly or to the r/freefolk fundraiser at https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/justicefordaenerys. Even if you can't donate, tweet about it, share the link on tumblr, reddit, whatever social media you use.
> 
> Let's show D&D just how hard they played themselves, and show Emilia how much we love and appreciate her (and the rest of the cast and crew, basically anyone who worked on this show who did not participate in the worst writing since TinyLight's description of my aptitude as a mother a few weeks ago. That boy lies, y'all) and let's see how much money we can get this bad bitch.
> 
> When we get to 25K on the fundraiser I re-post 'Ghost is a Good Boy'. :-)

  
Chapter 1  
Summary:

Jon has a visitor in his room. Things get naked from there.

  
  


Jon Snow closed the door to his quarters with an exhale of relief.  Quiet, at last.  It was late, later than he’d intended, the ringing of picks and hammers against dragon glass still echoing in his ears.  There was so much to be had, he couldn’t waste any spare moments afforded to him here on Dragonstone while he had them, he must make sure he could arm his people.  All of his people.

He let out a sigh, hearing a fire already crackling in the hearth.  The Queen’s staff had been generous, providing for he and his men much more in the fashion of guests than prisoners.  He was exhausted, certainly, ready to climb into the large bed, much larger than one he could remember having.  In truth, he thought he might yet have a hard time sleeping.  He looked down at his hand while he slipped of his gloves, not looking up as he made his way into the center of the room, marveling that hours before it had touched a dragon.  A fucking dragon.  Oh, the power he’d felt coming off the Queen’s beast was magnificent, stirring, had made him feel overcome.

Not beasts, he reminded himself.  Her children.  He smiled to himself at that thought, wry grin still on his face as a voice broke through the silence of the room.

“Good evening, Jon Snow.”

He jumped, obviously enough for her to notice if the low laugh she let out was any indication.  Hand to his chest, he walked slowly to the fireplace to see her occupying the high-backed chair facing away from the door.  No wonder he hadn’t seen her.  But why was she in his room?  At night?  He felt a nervous anticipation building in the pit of his stomach.  If she knew how many nights he’d thought about her, in this room, things he wanted to do to her, ways he wanted to touch her…well she might not have risked coming.

He came around to face her, still standing as she sat before the fire, sipping wine and looking completely unfazed at the fact that she was alone, with him, in his room.  Completely unaware that she might have some sort of affect on him, dressing in some sort of filmy sleeping shift, Gods was it blue?  It looked to be the blue of a clear sky, and he could already imagine how silky it would feel against his fingertips, interrupted only by the dark material of the more substantial robe she wore on top.  This must be a dream, Jon thought.  I’ve gone to sleep and this is a dream, and I’m going to have a very hard time looking at her tomorrow, I know how these dreams end.

“My apologies for startling you.”  She took another sip of wine, her face painted in the orange and red flickering light that filled the room.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you…here, your Grace.  Are you lost?”

She laughed at him then, lips parting and teeth flashing and he wanted to taste the wine on her lips, on her tongue.  She shouldn’t be here.  This was a dangerous game to play.

Daenerys gestured for him to take the seat opposite her.  “This is my home.  Of course I’m not lost.  I only wished to speak with you privately, if that’s alright.  I tire of being surrounded at all times, getting advice I’ve not asked for; it makes it rather impossible to think for myself.”

Jon nodded.  That he understood.  “Of course.”  She poured some wine for him, and while he didn’t normally drink it, he took it.  It was an extremely rare occurrence for him, having a beautiful woman in his room drinking wine.  He could let himself enjoy her company, he thought, just once.  He knew how she felt, as well, sometimes he just wanted to keep his own counsel instead of the constant stream of words from his family, his advisors.

She slowly looked away from the fire, amethyst eyes locking with his.  He felt frozen by it, he didn’t think he could look away if he wanted to, and it was a bit uncomfortable.  He felt as if she was examining him, and he wasn’t sure there was much that she’d want to find.

“Do you have a death wish, Jon Snow?”  She sipped once more, tongue snaking out to capture a droplet of wine from her lower lip.  He stared at her for a moment, wondering what she wanted, where this was going.  How he was going to get away with not standing if she left in the near future, because just the sight of her pink tongue flicking out of her mouth made blood rush to parts of him that the Queen might find offensive.

“What do you mean, Daenerys?”  If she wasn’t going to call him by his signifiers then he wouldn’t as well.  It had begun to grate on him that she still rarely acknowledged he was a King. 

She smirked at him, hearing him call her that.  “Do you make it a habit to recklessly throw yourself into situations that mean almost certain death?”

He was a bit confused as to why she was questioning him so.  “I have, perhaps, been accused of such things, I suppose.  But I am a King.  That does demand a level of risk, I have found.”

Still she looked.  Just looked, assessing, measuring.  He wished he’d still had on his full leathers from earlier, at least to hide the uncomfortable state her attention was putting him in.

“My dragon could have killed you today.”  Oh.  That’s what this was about.  She was right, he knew it, knew it was extremely stupid to approach that massive head as it lowered.  But at the time, it hadn’t seemed threatening.  The dragon just seemed to be examining him, just as it’s mother seemed to be doing now.  He had been reminded of Ghost in that moment, so strongly that it just made sense to peel off his glove, to let the dragon scent him, to see if he would allow Jon’s touch. 

“He didn’t want to kill me.”  He watched as she cocked her head at him, that glorious mane of hair held back from her face, but curls flowing free from the gather at her neck, cascading over her shoulder.  It really wasn’t fair, Jon thought, for one woman to be so beautiful.  How was any man supposed to stand a chance, not immediately fall to his knees before her?  Were it not for the Night King, Jon knew he’d probably have done so as well.

“You’re right.  He didn’t.”  The Dragon Queen traced her finger around the rim of her goblet, gazing down into the wine before snapping her eyes back to his.  “That’s very unusual.”

“Is it?”  Jon hadn’t spent that much time around the Queen’s dragons, he had no idea if there were others who fed them or cared for them or if contact with them was solely the domain of their mother.

“No one has ever touched Drogon but me.  He is the fiercest of them.”  She placed her goblet down on the table before her, fabric shifting as she leaned forward, staring at him intensely.  He only allowed his eyes downward for a second and marveled at his own willpower, the firelight dancing across the cleavage revealed by the split in her robe.  He was going to need her to leave, soon, he really was, because no man could be expected to withstand this.  “My dragon seems to trust you, Jon Snow.  I trust Drogon with my life.  He has never betrayed me.  Many men have.” 

Now she stood, slowly, shouldering off her robe and he realized he could see every fucking inch of her through that gown.  It was indecently sheer and she had to have known that when she came to his room, dressed like that.  He groaned and closed his eyes.  What was this?  Had she come to seduce him, then, get him to bend the knee once she’d coaxed him with her body? 

“If you mean to get me to hand over the North like this, just stop.”

There was silence, then a hand on his cheek, and it was like being touched by fire.  How could she be so hot to the touch?  His will to resist this was fleeing his body at an alarming rate, but he opened his eyes anyway, meeting hers. 

“Take off your shirt, Jon Snow.”

He set his jaw, he’d already made himself clear, he wasn’t going to let her use his weakness as a man to gain hold of the North.

“No.”

“I want to trust you, Jon.  I want to trust you as my dragon does.  I want to trust you with my armies.  But I must know the truth.  Take off your shirt.”  She seemed so sincere and his mind was a mess at the point, his body warring fiercely with his brain, pulling him apart.  She wanted to see?  Fine.  She could see then she could leave, she could trace those lovely eyes over the horrors of his skin, see every betrayal he’d suffered from men sworn as his brothers.  Perhaps her disgust would dissuade her off her planned seduction.

He stood roughly, fingers reaching down to grab the hem of the tunic he’d left on as he finished working in the caves, and pulled it over his head.  Then he watched her face, watched her as she’d watched him as her eyes took in the scars scattered across his chest. 

Jon watched as those violet eyes cycled from shock to horror then, to his surprise, anger.  She set her jaw, lips in a firm line, then said between clenched teeth, “Who did this to you?”

No point in lying now.  Now she knew.  “My brothers in the Night’s Watch did not appreciate their commander bringing wildlings south of the Wall.  They called me a traitor, lured me outside, then ambushed me.”  She bit her lip at his words, staring at the scar over his heart.  “Then they stabbed me.  Each of them.  Because I wouldn’t leave the wildlings to die.”

She looked up at him, now, right in the eyes, heat simmering in the depths of her gaze.  “You can not have survived those wounds, Jon Snow.  How are you here before me?”

“I did not survive them.”  He sighed and dipped his head, reaching for the shirt he’d worn to cover himself again, but she stilled him with a hand on his forearm.  He could feel the force of her stare, willing him to tell her the rest.  “The red woman, Melisandre…”, her eyes flared with recognition here, “she brought me back.  Though every day I wake up and I’m not sure why.”

“She was here.  Melisandre.  She told me to send for you, that we both had a role to play in the wars to come.”  She seemed tentative here, for the first time since he’d entered the room tonight, take two steps closer to him, eyes on his chest.  “She neglected to mention this.”

Jon started to respond but found himself a bit speechless as she inched nearer, a fingertip running the length of the scar across his heart, that wound inflicted by Olly, that final cut that had ended his life.  “It’s not something I want known.”

“Thank you for showing me.”  He could feel the whisper on his skin, she was so close now, and it was beautiful agony, to be this close and not touch her, not run his hands over that silky fabric, over the breasts he could see clearly now, the plane of her stomach, the flare of her hips.

“Why have you come here?”  He grasped her wrist with his hand, stilling her finger over the scar blazing across his pectoral, voice almost a growl.  He was not going to be able to stop himself from touching her.  He was going to take her if she did not leave very soon.

“Because I am selfish.”  Her voice was a whispered hiss, firing his blood, his grip on her wrist tightening.  “Because I could not bear that my dragon had known your touch before I did.”

Jon’s eyes darted to hers, not sure he could believe what he was hearing.  But, Gods, the hunger in her eyes, the heat, perhaps she was telling the truth.

He released her wrist, raking his eyes down her body now, making sure she knew he was doing it, feeling himself straining relentlessly against the breeches he still wore.  “You’d better be sure that’s what you want, Daenerys Stormborn, or you’d best leave right now.”

She launched herself at him, mouth attacking him with a ferocity that he should have expected but still caught him off guard.  She was a dragon, after all.  He met her lips and tongue and teeth with his own, kissing her hard enough to bruise her lips, one hand tangling in her soft hair while the other slid down her back, just above the swell of her ass, crushing her to him.

Her moan was immediate, her lips parting from his, panting and arching herself against him.  He could feel the hard points of her nipples through that thin, filmy excuse for a dress, and she writhed against him as he bit and licked his way down her neck.  Oh, the sounds she made, words like Jon and please and now mixed with cries and moans, and he was consumed by the need to break her, to make her scream his name, to make her his.

He drew back and she groaned in frustration, reaching for him as he took a step back, towards his bed.  “Do you want me to touch you again?”

She nodded almost frantically, and Jon thought that she was either a remarkable actress or she actually wanted him.  Either way he was past the point of caring.  He grabbed her blindly, laying her onto the bed before straightening.  He stood there, looking down at her, her eyes almost pleading, her thighs pressing together and her hips twisting.  “Jon, please, I need…”

She was mindless, this Dragon Queen, in her want for him, and he was harder than he thought he’d ever been in his life.  “I know what you need.”  Jon crouched above her, his hands trailing across each breast lightly and she arched up, body begging for the contact.  He didn’t make her wait, not able to make himself delay in his need to taste her, to touch her.  He slid his mouth and tongue across her upper chest, hearing her whimper as he brought his mouth down to one hard peak, cupping her breast in his hand while he tongued her nipple through the material.  Her hands were on him immediately, gripping his head to hold him there, to push him to her other breast, panting as he ran a hand down her side and to her hip.

Jon raised his head then, a whine issuing from her lips until he grasped the thin shoulders of her shift and swept it downward, exposing the body he’d imagined in his dreams, that he’d worked himself to in this bed, but even his fevered mind hadn’t gotten it right.  He tossed the fabric to the floor, sliding his palms up her ankles, past shapely calves, pushing apart those smooth, firm thighs.  She seemed mindless, now, voice breaking.  “Jon, please!”

Jon worked his tongue down her inner thigh, the downy skin surely being abraded by his beard, feeling her skin slick with want that had already escaped her.  It wasn’t possible, that she could want him this much, but she did.  He could see her glistening, could see pink lips soaked with want, the bud at the apex of her core flushed and engorged.  He licked her slowly, firmly, tongue parting her folds as he reached that swollen nub, swirling around it, moaning himself as he tasted her finally.  This had been something of a regular fantasy for him, but his imagination hadn’t come close, not at all. 

Gods, he just wanted to bury himself inside her, slam his cock into the hot slickness now coating his tongue, flowing from her into his greedy mouth.  He licked and pulled at the lips of her, making her hips arch off the bed as she tried to bring him where she wanted him most.  Her thighs were tight against his head now, and he looked up the length of her body as he suckled at the bundle of nerves above her opening, surprised to see her up on her elbows, watching him.  His desire ratcheted higher as he watched her watching him, increasing his pressure slightly and causing her head to fly back, a constant stream of sobbing cries pouring from her now.

He wanted to see it take her, wanted to watch her face as he brought her climax on, and he slid a finger inside her, finally, the walls of her sheath tightening on him as he slid another digit inside of her.  She canted her hips up, rocking against the thrust of his fingers into her, seeking, and he curled them up and in, giving her friction where she needed it.  She was gasping, now, no longer watching as her chest heaved, words intelligible, and he brought his tongue once more to swirl around her bud, around and around as he felt her tightening.  He suckled her into his mouth, then, tongue sliding along with the pressure of his lips, and she gave a loud cry, a sound between a sob and a laugh, walls clenching and releasing his fingers as her hips bucked against his mouth.  He slowed his movements, tongue smoothing the length of her as she came down, her thighs finally loosening as he ran a hand from her knee to her hip.

Jon pulled back from her, hand wiping down his mouth and beard, trying to keep himself under control as he stood and looked down at her.  She was magnificent, there was no denying that, body splayed before him, flushed and gloriously perfect.

He waited, not moving, not sure if she’d gotten what she’d come there for and would take her leave.  Then her eyes snapped open, and he was pinned by the predatory look in her eyes.  She stared at him, pulling herself slowly up and crawling to where he stood at the foot of the bed.  A mere flick of her gaze down then her eyes met his again, her hands coming up to slowly, torturously unlace the breeches he was straining against, the slip of her fingers against him enough to make him pant. 

“Do you want me to touch you, Jon?”  All he could do was nod, dumbly, trying to keep himself from spilling from the touch of her hand alone.  He groaned as she finally finished unlacing the pants, shoving them down his legs for him to step out.  He’d barely gotten a foot free when he hands were on his cock, and that burning fire in his groin was ablaze, hips thrusting on their own as she wrapped her small hands around him, and if he didn’t stop her he was going to show how inexperienced he really was at being touched by a woman.

But Daenerys clearly had other ideas in mind, standing finally and almost shoving him back onto the bed, following him with her body as he crawled upwards towards the head, pillows at his back finally stopping him.  She kissed him, her tongue plumbing the depths of his mouth, tangling hotly with his as she slid her hands across his chest and neck.  She broke away, mouth and tongue forging a fiery trail down his neck, nipping at the tendons and moving southward.  She looked into his eyes, head tilted as she snaked her tongue across a scar, placing heated open-mouthed kisses against each one she encountered as she continued down his body.  His hips rose at the feel of her hair sliding across his length, and he couldn’t stop his own loud moan as she grasped him in her hand, her lips darting to his hip bones and her tongue tasting the skin there.

Jon looked down at her, moonlight silver hair trailing across him as she licked her way over to his cock, and then he knew what she was going to do, something no one had done to him before, something he’d heard about plenty but had never experienced himself.  He held still, wanting to burn this image into his mind, of her eyes boring into his as she kissed the tip of him, her tongue slipping out from between her lips to taste the drops already leaking from him.  She moaned, then, and he felt it down his entire length.  He tried to prepare himself for what he thought was coming, but it was a wasted effort, because as he watched his cock slip between those plump lips, saw her slide him into her mouth, saw the glisten of her saliva on his skin as she worked him with her hands and mouth, he was lost.  Nothing could have existed other than the feeling of this, the rasp of her tongue against the underside of his tip, the sweet pressure as she sucked gently.  He wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore, but he would have been embarrassed at the volume he was expressing his enjoyment in if it hadn’t been the best fucking thing he’d felt in his life. 

She hummed once more, his member enveloped by her mouth, and his balls were tightening.  He was very close and there wasn’t anything he could do about it but watch as she released him, her hand working his length, slick with her saliva, and she slid her tongue down, rasping against the tightened skin of his scrotum, his hips rocking off the bed at the sensation.  It was driving him crazy, the tandem sensation, and he couldn’t stop himself, had to warn her.

“Oh, fuck, Daenerys, I’m going to, I can’t stop it…”  She brought her face up to look at him, hand still stroking him, her tongue coming out to play with the head of him.  He threw his head back, moaning, eyes slamming shut and then she was engulfing him in her mouth once more, no longer teasing, sucking earnestly as she fitted her lips against the hand curled around him, her free hand cupping and cradling his balls.  He came, panting raggedly and crying out, spilling himself in her mouth as she swallowed him whole, his body collapsing bonelessly against the bed.  He could feel her climb up beside him, her breath puffing against his bicep. 

What was he supposed to say now?  To do?  He turned his head slowly, looking at where she lay, her eyes meeting his.  For a moment they just stared at each other, but then she started smiling and he had to smile back.  And then she started laughing, and he joined in, because this was all very reckless, what they’d done, probably a terrible idea. 

But it was wonderful and he felt alive for the first time since he’d been brought back, and he reached over, bringing her to lay against his chest and hugging her to him.  She raised her head after a moment, propping her chin up on her hand so she could see his face.  “You know, Jon Snow, there are other ways to build alliances than bending the knee.”

Jon hummed in agreement, raising his eyebrows.  “If this way is an option, I could be convinced to put my support behind it.”

  
  
Chapter 2  
Summary:

Dany is just too shook.

  
  
Notes:

I did the thing. I should have been writing other things but I did this thing and I have no remorse.

In the words of Chaz Michael Michaels, "That, young man, is how babies are made."

  
  


 

Daenerys Targaryen made a mistake.  She couldn’t be sure yet how large it was, whether it was ruinous for her plans or just inconvenient.  But as she sat, looking at herself in the mirror, waiting for Missandei to arrive and help her prepare for the day, she studied her face.  She knew it was a mistake, what she had done the prior night, because she could barely meet her own eyes.  She couldn’t keep that silly, mooning smile off her face.  She’d spent the last ten minutes trying to school her features back into the familiar mask of the Queen.  She was not some childish maid, kissed for the first time.  She was twice-married, relatively jaded on the merits of trusting any man with her heart, and only slightly more open to the idea of trusting another with her body.  She did not parade around her ancestral seat grinning and swooning and blushing.

But she could not stop, not right now, because her traitorous memory refused to stop remembering what she had done.  What Jon Snow had done to her, what she had done to him…she was a fool.  A fool who had noticed, of course, that he was handsome.  She had seen many handsome men.  He seemed rather honorable, and while that was rarer in her experience, it wasn’t a novel concept.  He seemed rather humble, not a braggart swaggering about with tales of his accomplishments.  That was rarer still.   The tales she heard about him came from others, not him.  In fact, he seemed uncomfortable with praise, with being a King at all.

None of those would have motivated what she’d done, made her throw herself at him like some common whore, if it hadn’t been for Drogon.  No one, ever, touched him.  No one dared.  He was the most violent, the hardest to control, and he had almost purred at the touch of the King in the North.  She had been afraid for him, truly, wondering why he hadn’t moved the minute Drogon had landed on that cliff, craning to see if her son was going to kill one of the only potential allies she had left.  Then she saw.  She saw her son leaning into the touch of that somber King, and there was no fear on his face.  It was awe, reverence.  It was so unexpected that she had slipped, in that moment.  She had allowed something to creep in, a hunger that burned through her so swiftly that she couldn’t have thought to fight it even if she’d wanted to.

She wanted him to look at her like that.

The thought hadn’t left her, always lingering, even after Jorah’s arrival.  She’d paced the grounds, lecturing herself about expectations, and responsibilities.  She wanted to take back her family’s throne.  She could not muck about with comely Kings because they’d been unafraid in the face of her fiercest child, had reached forward instead of pulling back.  He was mad, that’s what it was, he had to be.  Trying to get himself killed, and then she would have to deal with the North as well, who would hold her responsible for the death of their King by her dragon.  What a fool he was. 

But…

He was undeniably brave.  She admired that.  He was also extremely evasive when she pressed about what Ser Davos had said that first day, about taking a knife in the heart for his people.  It should not occupy her so, but it did, and it was the only thing she sensed he was not being completely honest about.

And so day had become night, and she had retired to her chambers, thinking Tyrion must have rubbed off on her a bit too much as she nursed a glass of wine or two more than was her habit.  Yes, she would blame the wine.  It had loosened her tightly held control enough to give her ideas she had no business having, ideas she usually kept confined to the dark of night, in the privacy of her bed, sliding her hands over her body and wondering what his would feel like.  Wondering what he would look like if she made him lose control, if he was a wolf indeed under that stoic face.  She’d never intended to act on those ideas.

But then Drogon allowed his touch, and she had a bit too much wine, and she desperately wanted to know the truth, wanted to know if Ser Davos had gotten “carried away”.  It was selfish to want things for herself, if she intended to rule.  But all day, she had thought of him.  Of his hands on her, caressing her, of seeing that look on his face as she touched him, tasted him.  And she had been weak, at last, and had put on something she had no good reason for wearing, not to a man’s room who had refused to bend the knee, who was a reluctant ally at best. 

He had not answered, so she had decided she would wait.  Perhaps if she caught him by surprise she could coax answers from him, make him desire her before sense got the better of either of them.  She’d sat, staring into the flames, sipping another glass of wine to calm her nerves, but she kept looking at his bed, picturing him laying there, body bare, perhaps doing the sorts of things she did when she was alone.  Perhaps he thought of her.  She had been in such a perpetual state of arousal, of readiness for his touch, that by the time he’d finally come in she was hanging on to her control by the barest edge. 

She remembered herself now, shaking her shoulders and steeling herself, looking in the mirror once more and willing herself to regain control.  But she could not convince herself to forget how he had touched her, the things he had done to her.  Daenerys had known many men, truly, but she had not had many lovers.  No man had ever used his mouth on her, not like that.  Not like Jon Snow had. 

She groaned, burying her face in her hands.  She was going to have to be around him, of course.  In the same room, she was sure.  How was she going to look at his face and not see him as she had last night, between her thighs, giving her pleasure she hadn’t experienced before, completely devoting himself to it?  Savoring her?  She let out a shuddering breath.

How could she look at him and not remember his face, finally full of awe and reverence, as she’d tasted him, her tongue everywhere, the feel of him in her mouth and his helpless mutterings filling her with such a sense of power?  She craved it now.  That was the problem.  She had tasted what he was under all those furs, under that controlled Northern King, and she wanted him, again. 

Missandei entered and she tried hard now, to put on that mask, giving her friend a smile as she rose.  Dark eyes searched hers, then took in her body as Missandei helped her shed the robe she’d drawn tightly around herself.  She heard a gasp and knew Missandei had seen it, the only evidence Daenerys had that last night had not been an extremely realistic dream: marks at the base of her neck, across chest where he’d suckled at her skin, driving her wild with want.

Missandei circled around to face her, a knowing smirk on her face.  “I think something with a collar today, yes?”

Daenerys smiled, appreciating her friend’s restraint.  It wasn’t that she was ashamed to tell Missandei what had happened, but if she had to discuss it now, describe in detail what had transpired, she would not be able to face him without embarrassing herself, she was sure of it.

Missandei nodded, amusement in her voice, “Let’s get you prepared.”

\------------------

Her cheeks were flaming.  Daenerys knew they were, and she knew he’d seen, and she only took solace in the fact that, while the dark hair of his beard might disguise any flushing of his own cheeks, the tips of his ears were red.

She’d met his eyes, once, and regretted it, not being able to stop the half smile that he mirrored before they both looked away. 

She was a grown woman, and she was being ridiculous.  She looked over to Missandei, grasping her hand to get her attention and letting her know she was going to get some air.  Perhaps that would cool the fire in her cheeks.

She stepped out onto a nearby balcony, staring at the sea and breathing slow and deep, willing herself to calm down, hating that there was an ember of arousal constantly burning now, and she clenched her thighs, pressing them together as she placed her hands on the railing in front of her.

Daenerys exhaled, slowly, controlling her breathing.  There.  She was fine.  She could do this.  A noise sounded behind her and she froze, waiting.  It was him, she knew it was, could feel the hairs on her skin rise.  It was mad, to be this aware of him, for her heart to race at the prospect of being out here, alone, with him, and she kept herself facing forward, not trusting herself to meet his eyes.

He approached her, still silent, but she could feel the warmth of him at her back, not quite touching but close enough.  “Your Grace.”  The low rasp of his voice made something quiver low in her abdomen; he sounded like he had last night.

_I know what you need._

“King in the North.”  She tried to keep her voice clipped, short but polite, but even to her own ears there was invitation in it, the words drawn out.

“Look at me.”  His lips were beside her ear, and the flood of arousal at the vibration against her skin, the heat of his breath on her, was absolute madness.  What had she become?

But she turned, because she had to, and she couldn’t tell who moved first but in seconds his lips were against hers.  It was her, though, who thrust her tongue into his mouth, demanding, her hands coming up to curl in the hair at the base of his neck.  He was going to think she was the foreign whore many called her, but she could not bring herself to care at this moment, not when he was thrusting his tongue against hers just as fiercely, devouring her as she did him.

It was reckless, and perhaps that enflamed her all the more, and him as well, because then his arms were around her, one hand smoothing down her back to curve around her ass, and she moaned into his mouth, wanting his hands everywhere, right now.

He pulled back, their breath mingling together as he looked into her eyes, studying her.  He released her then, and she managed not to whine like the petulant child she feared she was becoming, and dipped his head at her.  “I will take my leave now, your Grace, before your advisors or mine stumble upon us.”

Daenerys crossed her arms across her chest, leaning back into the railing.  “Then why did you come out here, Jon Snow?”

He held her eyes, a slow smile creeping across his face that made her knees a bit weak.  “I had to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.”

He turned and left, and she was sullenly thankful that he had stopped them, because she could not control herself with him, and she craved it and hated it in equal measure.

\----------------

He was a fool.  A stubborn, reckless, stupid brave fool and he was going to get himself killed.  And she made a fool of herself with her outburst, the only thing she could think to say, regretting it as soon as it passed her lips.

_I haven’t given you permission to leave._

She did not own him.  He had not bent the knee to her.  Jon Snow was *not* hers, and she would do well to remember that.

She was raging inside, though, and she felt helpless, a feeling she loathed more than any other.  She left the walls of stone that pressed in on her, threatening to smother her, cursing her Hand and Jorah and Jon Snow most of all.  She had to get away, she needed to think.

Daenerys approached the cliffs, reaching for Drogon in her mind, in her heart, her eyes closed as she waited.  She felt the ground thunder as he landed before her, and she scrambled up quickly, needing off this bloody island.  Drogon took off, powerful legs launching them into the air as his mighty wings began to rise and fall.  She looked back, seeing a lone figure layered in dark furs, watching as she departed.  She turned her face forward, swiping at the angry tear that had escaped.  She would not cry.  She was a Queen.

She would clear her head and fly with her son and she would not think about Jon Snow, risking his life again, already dying once, doing all of this because she would not fight with him unless they could mitigate the risk Cersei presented if they marched North first.  If he died it would be her fault and she would never forgive him, or herself.

\---------------

When she finally returned to Dragonstone, night had fallen.  She crossed the distance in the dark, mind wandering, calmer than when she’d left.  She would not dissuade him from going.  She understood that.  She understood why he was going at all; in his place she might have made the same decision, hadn’t she said as much to Tyrion before?  What kind of Queen was she if she wasn’t willing to risk her life for her people?

Jon Snow was going, once Davos and Tyrion returned from their mission in King’s Landing, and she would have to reconcile herself with that.  But if he was going, she was going to have him.  All of him.  She was not going to deny herself the pleasure of him, if there was a chance he would not return.  In this, she would give in to her selfishness. 

Missandei was waiting for her, and she gave her a small hug, whispering in her friend’s ear, “Have Jon Snow summoned to my chambers.  I will be along shortly.”

She would take herself to the baths, and she would cleanse herself of the anger and anxiety and restlessness of the day, and then she would have him.  She would have all of him, in her chambers, in her bed, she would feel him driving into her until she could no longer take it.  She would have everything he could give her while she still had the chance.

\--------------------

Jon Snow was standing in her room.  Despite her earlier frustration, her earlier fear for him, she felt a thrill of anticipation as she looked at him.  He was standing at an open arch leading out to the balcony, her balcony, leaning against the support at he stared out into the night.  She was pleased to see he’d chosen not to dress fully, coming at her request in something similar to what he’d worn the prior night, just a creamy white tunic that looked a little threadbare, breeches and his boots. 

He didn’t look up as she entered, perhaps not hearing her door catch as she closed it, so she didn’t speak, silently walking to the support opposite him, leaning her back against it and gazing out into the night as well.

He let out a sigh.  He must have heard her, then.  He didn’t look at her, still, his voice low and grave.  “I don’t want to fuckin’ do this, you have to know that.  But if I don’t go, they’ll all die.”  She did know.  She’d reached that conclusion earlier, after her fit of pique, hours of turning it all over in her mind establishing that understanding in her.  She didn’t like it, but she knew it.

“I know.”  She meant to speak louder, she did, but he was turning his head to hers and his hair was down and she’d never seen him like this.  He looked wild.  Undone.  He looked like she felt, like that burning that was blazing back to life inside of her now that she was with him.

Daenerys watched his eyes as he fully faced her, as he took in what she had put on, again chosen to entice him just as she had last night.  Another shift, sheer and clinging, but red this time, the red of her House, red as blood, and she gloried in the widening of his eyes, his gaze travelling up the length of her body so slowly. 

He met her eyes, and she could feel herself heating, moisture building between her legs as he took his time walking to her, closing the small distance but bringing himself up just short of touching her.

“Fuck.”  The growling utterance was forceful, the need in his voice making her back arch away from where she leaned, her breasts rising and falling a bit more swiftly as her breathing sped up.

“I know what you’re doing.”  She merely quirked an eyebrow at the accusation, leaning into his hand slightly as his palm came up to cup her cheek.  He slid a thumb across her bottom lip, his breath catching in an extremely pleasing manner as she captured it between her lips, sucking it with gentle pressure.

“You’re trying to torture me.”   Daenerys leaned her head back as he drew his wet thumb down her neck, her skin on fire where he touched her.  She let loose a throaty chuckle, bringing her eyes back to his.

“Are you sure?”  He slid his thumb along her shoulder now, the thin strap catching it and he moved it slowly down her arm.  She stepped forward now, just bringing her body into contact with his, everywhere that she touched him coming alive and she yearned to press against him, to feel the friction of him against her.

“Aye, you are.  You know it.” 

Daenerys merely smiled, bringing her hands to his chest and smoothing her palms up to his shoulders, the muscles under her fingertips bunching at she touched him through the thin material of his shirt.  “You have been torturing me all day, Jon Snow.”  She whispered the words into his ear, then brought her mouth to his neck, laving her tongue up the column of his throat.  She moved to his other ear, his hands gripping her waist and bringing their hips to slide against each other.  “All I could think of was having your hands on me.”  She bit at his ear lobe sharply, rubbing herself against his chest, closing her eyes as he groaned deep in his chest and thrust himself against her.  She could feel him, hard and demanding, torn between wanting to taste him again, to run her tongue along the shape of him and make him moan, or beg him to be inside her.

She disengaged from him, missing the heat of his body but hungering for that look again, that awe and reverence that had driven her to start this whole affair from the start, and she took a step back, drawing her shift down her body and stepping out of it.  It came much faster tonight, as he drank in the skin bared before him, hand coming up to slide a knuckle along the curve of her breast, spanning a hand down her waist. 

He was going far too slowly, still too in control of himself, but she was desperate, and she needed to make him let go, she wanted him to take her, she needed him as mindless as she was.  Daenerys brought her hands up to his neck, coaxing him into kissing her wildly, urging his tongue into her mouth, suckling at it with each thrust.  He was breathing heavily, hands sliding down to cup her ass, to trail down her spine, cupping her breast and pinching her nipple lightly.  It was glorious, getting lost in the feel of his touch, but it was not enough.

She brought a hand between them, gripping him firmly through the fabric of his breeches and making him pant into her mouth.  “No more teasing, Jon.”  She stroked her hand down the length of his cock, her center aching to feel the stretch of him, to be full of him.  “I want you inside me.”

She saw it happen, as he stilled for a moment, eyes burning into hers.  Saw that thin tether on his control snap, saw the wolf come out, finally, hungry to claim her.  He slammed his mouth into hers, lips and teeth clashing as they fought for dominance, his body forcing hers backwards.  She felt her knees hit the back of the bed and pushed her hand into his chest, her own heaving, his hands coming up to roughly fondle her breasts and pulling sharply at her nipples as she cried out.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed, Jon.”  She didn’t even recognize her own voice now, needing to feel his skin on hers, to tangle themselves together and have him ease the ache that had taken over.

He stripped the tunic off, movements jerky and stilted, toeing off his boots and stepping out of his breeches.  He pushed her shoulder, turning her around pulling her flush against him.  She gasped, finally feeling his cock against her, hot and hard and sliding along the wet center of her.  “I don’t need to get on the bed, Daenerys.  I can fuck you right here.” 

She was embarrassingly wet, so ready for him that she didn’t even flinch as he pushed her upper body none to gently onto the bed and angled his hips, sliding into her easily.  She cried out, his name broken as she stretched her hands above her, grabbing the bed coverings until her knuckles were white, bracing herself for this, what she’d wanted, him driving into her.

“Gods, you’re so fucking wet.”  She moaned, driving her hips back as his slammed forward, wanting all of him, savoring the feel of the blunt head of him bottoming out, slight pinches of pain swamped by the pleasure of him sliding inside of her.  “Oh, Dany.”  He groaned, pulling her up to brace herself on her hands, his own rough palms finding her breasts and toying with the peaks of her nipples, using his grip as leverage to drive into her at a different angle.

She couldn’t even focus on what he’d called her, hearing that name in that low Northern growl making her thrust back farther, his hips slapping against her ass as she felt herself nearing, pleasure building low in her, growing and expanding as he increased his pace.  He pinched her nipple then, hard, and she was gone, lost to the friction of his skin on hers, her walls clenching around him as her back arched sharply, crying out more loudly than she should have in a castle of people she wanted to ignore at the moment.  Her release was driving him to a frenzy, and she urged him on as his hands grabbed her hips tightly, hard enough to leave a mark. 

She tightened herself intentionally, still fluttering intermittently as her orgasm subsided, and he called her name, haphazard with his movements now, tensing then spilling inside her, flooding her with the warmth of him as his thrusts slowed.

He slid himself from her, gently, taking a step then collapsing on the bed as she lowered herself, boneless, the raging hunger she’d nurtured all day finally sated.

She watched his profile as he looked at the ceiling of her chambers, exhaling and whispering “Shit.”  But for the wonder in his voice she might have been insulted, she thought, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips.

Daenerys propped herself up on her elbow as he turned to face her, smiling at him coyly.  “You must return to me, Jon Snow.”

“I’m certainly going to fucking try.”  He chuckled in disbelief, bringing his mouth to hers and kissing her slowly, sweetly.  This was not the frenzied kiss of before, and she broke it before she could read too much into his intent, what his eyes and lips were telling her.  She was not going to cry now.

“Good.  If you return, you will marry me and have your armies, and your dragons.”  Those flinty grey eyes met hers, disbelief and something else she didn’t want to look at fully, not yet, peering back at her.

“Do you accept the terms of the alliance I am proposing, King in the North?”  She kept her voice extremely formal.  Regal.  The voice of a Queen. 

He swallowed, staring at her for a beat.  “I do.”

Daenerys looked down at his chest, tracing the scars that proved he’d cheated death once, and perhaps he could do it again.  Perhaps he would return to her.  “Excellent.  Diplomacy has always been my strong suit, you know.”

  
  
Chapter 3  
Summary:

Oh smut. WHY CAN'T I QUIT YOU. 

Takes place in 7.06 after the dragonbae rescue beyond the Wall.

There's feels, because it's post dragonbae rescue, so some reworking of the events following our ever-embattled hero on his quest for the good good and some dirty stuff, too, something for the whole family.

  
  
Notes:

I hope you're happy with what you've made me do ::shakes head:: I hope you're happy.

  
  


Jon Snow, the King in the North, had realized an awful, marvelous truth on the ship bound for Eastwatch:  He was in love with Daenerys Targaryen.

He hadn’t really known much love in his life; His father had loved him, he knew, and his brothers and sisters, but it had been a certain kind of love.  A love experienced at arm’s length.

Then he’d joined the Night’s Watch, and he’d gone beyond the Wall, and he’d met Ygritte, broken his vows for her.  And he’d loved her, known she loved him, but it was still a certain kind of love.  The kind of love he knew wouldn’t last, the kind of love that was in the moment, a love buoyed by that first experience of laying with a woman, knowing the pleasure that could bring, giving and receiving it.

But Jon had spent every night on this fucking ship with a stomach full of lead, sinking further and further in the pit of his stomach the farther he sailed from Dragonstone, because if the love he’d had for Ygritte had been a river, rushing him along, then Daenerys Targaryen was the ocean.  She had crashed into him and pulled him into her, grabbed him in the undertow of who and what she was.  What he felt for her was drowning, consuming, and the closer they came to his next dance with probable death the more he realized how stupid he had been, not telling her that before he left.

_I wish you good fortune in the wars to come._

It had been easy, at first, to tell himself that it was simply desire, that he was a King and she was a Queen and they could do the things they did together without consequence, that they could have each other and leave it at that.  Jon was not a poet, he did not have flowery words to describe how he felt about things; in fact he’d gotten rather used to denying those things to himself, things he shouldn’t have, things he didn’t deserve.  He’d felt a bit guilty, in fact, in the hunger he had for her, the need to be with her, to give her what she craved from him in return.  He was a bastard for all that he was a King, and she was surely debasing herself with someone such as him.

She’d been so angry when he’d suggested as much that she hadn’t spoken to him for a whole day, a wasted day in the weeks between Davos and Tyrion’s departure and return that he cursed himself for now.

He’d even thought her proposed alliance with him a jest of sorts, until the day before he’d set sail, Tyrion asking him in their last small council meeting whether he’d considered bending the knee before he left to capture a wight to convince his sister to lay down arms temporarily.  Before he could answer one way or another, Daenerys’s voice had cut in, informing her Hand that in his absence she and the King in the North had struck a different sort of agreement, that she would join their houses in marriage in exchange for her support and her armies and her dragons.

He’d been surprised, and felt a bit warm, the room growing stuffy as he realized she had meant it, she wanted to marry *him*, the Bastard of Winterfell, and as Tyrion protested he’d only been able to stare at her in growing amazement as she forcefully argued that the North was the largest kingdom geographically; that giving her support to them in the war would win their allegiance, and as the Vale and the Riverlands supported his sister, Sansa, they could gain multiple allies with one act.  Then she’d just raised an eyebrow at Tyrion, who’d digested all that and agreed, bowing a bit to her as she swept out of the room.

He’d followed shortly after, numb and a bit in shock; he hadn’t expected to marry at all, and certainly not a Queen, and even then not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  Jon had never considered himself a greedy man.  But she had been waiting for him on the landing, grabbing his hand and dragging him to her chambers and pulling them both back into the insulated cocoon of pleasure and desire that they’d been in since that first night.

She wanted him, and she pledged to marry him, and he was an apparently suicidal idiot about to risk his life North of the Wall, again.

Perhaps, he thought, laying back on the uncomfortable bunk, that was enough of a reason to make sure he survived.  Because he could not imagine, now, not seeing her face one more time, not telling her how much he loved her, how she could have anything she wanted from him, everything, and he would give it gladly just to be with her. 

That would be enough.  It had to be.

\-------------------

Sending Gendry for help had been his last and most tenuous hope.  As they’d been surrounded, almost overrun by the dead now swarming them, he’d experienced a sort of acceptance of the circumstances.  He would die fighting, and that was how she would remember him, and his only sadness was that he hadn’t told her the truth, but perhaps that was better.  He’d steeled himself, gripping Longclaw and preparing to swing his way into the darkness waiting beyond, taking as many of those fuckers with him as he could, and then she’d come.

She was, without a doubt, the most magnificent sight he’d ever seen.  She’d rained down fire and fury and all he could do was watch.  She had come.  She had come to save them.  She had come to save him.  He’d known having her dragons would improve their odds but the sheer force of their might, the great gouts of flame that engulfed their enemies; there was real hope in his heart then, that they might actually be able to win this war, with her.

And when she’d landed, and he’d been the first at her side, he’d seen the terror on her face, all the stories he’d told her now horrifyingly real, and he’d wanted nothing more than to climb up and fly on the back of that great beast.  But as soon as that awful screech had reached his ear he’d known he wasn’t done, that the dead were approaching again and he would have to fight them off while the others ascended the dragon’s back.

Then…oh, then that terrible moment when her dragon had cried out, arcing through the air, flame and blood shooting forth as it crashed to the ice below.  He had been filled with a righteous fury he’d never experienced.  He had felt like he was a dragon, then, had felt his blood heating for battle in a way it never had, ready to destroy everything in his path to avenge what the Night King had taken from her.  The dragons were her children, he knew that, and he would have justice for this.  But that icy fucker had reached for another weapon, ready to strike at Drogon now, and the Queen he loved, and panic gripped him, not caring at all what happened to him, just knowing she had to get out of there *now*.  She had, finally, and his relief was tempered by the knowledge that she would hate him for this, for forcing her to leave him behind, but he couldn’t watch her die.  Her life was worth far more than his and he would not give the Night King such a swift victory.

He’d pulled himself out of that icy water only by force of will, the will to fight his way to her, to find a path back to where she was while he still drew breath.  If his uncle had not arrived, had not sacrificed himself just as Jon had done to ensure Daenerys’s safety he would never have made it.

Jon had held on to consciousness as long as he could, seeing a dragon sweeping through the air as he cleared the forest just north of the Wall, finally collapsing in the saddle with exhaustion, knowing the horns would sound and someone would bring him in, the strength to keep his eyes open leaving him in blessed darkness.

\---------------

Jon cracked his eyes open, slowly, the harsh glare of the sun through the window making him blink rapidly as his vision adjusted.

There she sat, beautiful and teary and holding his hand, and he thought that if this was what waited beyond death he would stay this time.  He would stay forever.

He realized he wasn’t dead quickly, death wouldn’t make his throat dry and painful and his chest ache and death certainly wouldn’t make her face twist with fresh tears when she saw he was awake.  Death would not be so cruel as to make him watch her cry, only life could do that.

So he said all he could think to say, as he squeezed her hand.  “Oh, Dany.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  He thought maybe she’d scream at him, hit him, blame him for the loss of her dragon, for agreeing to go on this fucking doomed mission in the first place.  He did not expect her to put her face on his chest and weep as though she’d been holding it back for days. 

He brought his hands to her head, smoothing his fingers across those silver blond strands he had longed for while they’d been apart, curling a hand around her neck, feeling hot tears wet his chest and wishing he could make her feel better.  He couldn’t though, he could not erase the grief that consumed her over the loss of her dragon, her son.  He contented himself with comforting her, he could give her nothing more.

She sobbed, shoulders shaking and the hand not gripping his smoothing blindly across his chest, across the ridges of the scars marring his skin.  This was his fault, if he’d just bent the knee from the start they’d never have gone here, she’d never have sacrificed something so priceless to come and save his sorry hide.

“I wish I could take it back.  I wish we’d never gone.”  She sniffed then, raising her head finally and collecting herself, bringing her hand up to wipe beneath her eyes as she looked at him.  She shook her head, those violet eyes meeting his, her look holding none of the blame, just a softness he had rarely seen, sometimes flickering there in the nights they’d spent wrapped together.

“You came back.”  Jon was confused; that couldn’t be what had her crying, the loss of him was insignificant to the dragon she’d raised.  He saw he was wrong, though, something burning in her gaze now, something that looked like what he’d realized on that ship bound for Eastwatch.  Seeing it from her, though…that was humbling beyond belief. 

“I promised I would try.”  It hurt to speak but he could not be silent, not now, not after he’d promised himself that if he survived this trek he would tell her what pulsed inside him, that ran through his blood for her.  “I love you, Dany, and I’m a fucking fool for not telling you before I left.”

Her face twisted again, just slightly.  Jon could feel himself holding his breath, aching lungs be damned as she pulled her hand from his and stood.  That hadn’t been what he expected.  He laid his head back on the pillow feeling defeated, humiliated even.  He should have known better, life had certainly taught him as much by now.  He trained himself from a young age to stop getting his heart set on something he couldn’t have, and here he’d gone and done it again, professing his love for a Queen who’d probably only seen him as a diversion, someone she really was only marrying for political purposes.  He closed his eyes, wishing she would just go so he could wallow in his self-pity.

The sliding of the bolt into the lock of the wooden door was loud enough to get him to crack his eyes, open, risking just a peek to see what she was doing, if she was going to take pity on him and leave him be.

She wasn’t leaving.  She’d locked them both in there, together.  His heartbeat picked up a bit as he watched her silently make her way to the opposite side of the bed, unfastening the warm overcoat she’d had on to guard against the chill, revealing a simple shift underneath, not the filmy concoctions of before.  It was just a simple white shift, loose and flowing over her, and he chanced a look at her face and couldn’t catch his breath all of a sudden.  Oh.  Now he could see it, all there in her eyes, and she had never looked more beautiful than she did right then, staring down at him with the gentlest smile on her face he’d ever seen, pulling back the furs and sliding in beside him.

He laid his head back down, so relieved that he hadn’t made an absolute fool of himself that he felt his muscles go limp.  She curled up along his side, laying her head next to his and bringing her hand up to turn his face to her.

“No one has ever loved me without wanting something from me.  Without using me.  Without hurting me.  Without betraying me.”  She palmed his cheek, sliding her thumb along the contour, her hand warm and soft on his skin.  “I love you, Jon Snow, and that means I will not have you taking these sorts of risks again.”  She placed a chaste kiss on his lips, and he could tell she was trying not to jostle him, trying to be gentle.  “You belong to me, now, and I am greedy with what is mine.”  She kissed the tip of his nose, then brought hers to touch his, looking into his eyes seriously.  “Don’t you *ever* make me leave you behind again.  We will destroy the Night King and his armies.  The next time we face this, we do it together.  We will win or we will fall, but you will not do this alone.” 

He wanted to weep like a child, like the little boy he had been who wanted to be loved but never got more than the scraps he managed to collect, never had a mother to soothe him, never had a family he really belonged to.  But she wanted him, he could belong to her and the rest of it didn’t have to matter, so long as he had her.

“I promise.”  He smiled at her fully, happy in a way that he wasn’t sure he had been, something in his heart not feeling quite so empty, because she was filling it for him.

“We have a deal, then.  If you argued I was going to have to threaten that you could never touch me again if you were so set on dying.  Which, of course, would have surely broken my heart.  I have missed your touch terribly.”  She was whispering by the end, and he was glad he’d agreed so quickly, because that would have surely been an agony he wouldn’t inflict on either of them. 

“An extremely harsh threat.  I am relieved you didn’t have to resort to such demanding tactics.”  He curled an arm around her, and she brought her head up to rest on his chest, her arm draping across his torso. 

He could feel her smile against him, and she looked up, whispering, “Sleep, Jon.  You need your rest and so do I.”  She yawned, wide and jaw-cracking.  “I refused to sleep until you woke up, and it’s been two days.”

Jon shook his head, feeling at peace for the first time in a long time, closing his eyes and relaxing.

\----------------

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he did know it had been some time, as it was full dark now and the candles in the cabin were burning quite low. 

Jon did notice two things immediately, however.  The first was that he felt much warmer than the bone-chilling cold he’d still felt when he’d awoken earlier.

The second was that, at some point while he slept, Daenerys had taken off her clothes.  This wasn’t something upsetting to him, the feel of her naked body against his had quickly become one of his favorite things on Dragonstone.  It was having an effect on him, though, and he cursed that he couldn’t have her the way he wanted to as soon as he’d felt himself start to get hard, which was only seconds after he felt her breasts against him.  She had curled her thigh over his at some point, still on her side and curled into him while he’d slept on his back.  His body had craved her in their time apart, though, and was not going to be mentally brought under control, so he gave up trying, content to enjoy the feel of her even if he wasn’t sure he could act on it.

Daenerys stirred a few moments later, arching against him as she stretched, and he gritted his teeth against the tingling it caused in his groin, breasts sliding against him, full and soft and pressed against his side.  She arched up, pressing a kiss to his neck, her tongue snaking out to taste his skin, and he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him.  Her hand crept down from his torso, and he realized she knew exactly what was wrong with him as she laughed into his neck.

“Is something wrong, Jon Snow?”  Her fingertips slid across the muscles of his lower abdomen, skating dangerously close to the part of his body that had missed her most desperately, halting just before she made contact.

Jon groaned, turning to look at her in the low light from the candles in the room.  “When did you take off your clothes?”  She sat up, twisting her upper body to face him as she kept their legs twined together.

“You were so cold, Jon.  I thought it would warm you up.”  She cast her eyes downward, the desire she’d sparked in him no longer a secret as it tented the furs laid across his lower body.  “How wonderfully it worked.”

“Oh, no Dany, I’m in no state for that.  Much to my disappointment.”  Jon was no stranger to waiting these sorts of things out; as manhood had struck Jon, Robb, and Theon, it was Jon who refrained from accepting the advances of some of the more amorous ladies in the village south of Winterfell.  It was Jon who refrained from spending far too much time in the baths, it was Jon who had made it some sort of experiment in self-loathing to not even use his hand until he just couldn’t stand it anymore.

She seemed not to hear him, thought, sliding the furs slowly down his body, the slight chill in the air doing nothing to cool the state of his arousal, blood feeling like it burned as it coursed through his body. 

“I should see if there are any wounds or injuries we might have missed on first examination.  Your recovery is, of course, my highest priority.  I wouldn’t want to jeopardize our strategic military alliance.”  She made no effort to seem convincing, and he was too long deprived of the feel of her to put up a fight.  “Don’t move, Jon, we wouldn’t want to cause any complications.”

He couldn’t speak if he’d wanted to, desperate to see what she would do, well past caring about aggravating an injury at this point; he’d had much worse.

She straddled his now uncovered legs around his thighs, paying no heed to his erection rudely straining for her attention and sliding her palms across his chest.  “Hmmm.  Some bruising, but I doubt that’s anything to be concerned about.”  She brought her hands to either side of his shoulders, now on all fours, and he moaned low in his throat at the sensation of her abdomen glancing against the head of his cock.  Her head dipped down, her tongue traced tracks of fire along his neck and into the hollow of his throat, his body shifting of it’s own volition into whatever points of contact it could find with hers.

Daenerys finally, mercifully ran her hand down to his cock, and he felt like sobbing in relief as she intoned, “Oh Jon, this looks painful.”  She palmed him, curling her fingers around him and giving him a long stroke.  He grunted as she ran her tongue up the side of his length, circling the head with her lips and tongue as she reached his tip.

“You’re playing fuckin’ dirty.”  The groan escaped through clenched teeth, rumbling out and she just smirked at him, because she knew.  She knew full well exactly what made his head toss back, what drove him to a maddeningly quick release, what made him pant her name.  She stared at him as she straddled him again, not releasing his cock as she placed herself right above him, sliding the head of him through her soaking folds.  She bit her lip and looked at him as she teased herself with him, and he tensed at the sight of it.

“I don’t know what you mean, Jon Snow.”  But she did, he could tell, not being able to stop the smile that she gave him.  And then thank all the fucking gods he could think of, she brought him into her inch by inch, slowly gripping him in that tight, wet heat he’d dreamed of in his bunk bound for Eastwatch, like nothing else he’d ever felt, and a moan ripped from him that was echoed by her own as her body met his.

This was the only perfect thing he’d ever felt, in his whole life, when he was fully engulfed in her, sensations chasing their way from his cock to his spine, tingling down to the tips of his fingers.  He slid his hands up her thighs to her hips, holding loosely to her as she began to ride him, watching himself slipping into her as she found the angle she liked.  This she was an artist at, drawing them together into rhythms that usually drove them both to completion rather quickly, the roll of her hips as she rose and fell on his hitting something in her that made her a bit wild from what he could tell.

“Oh, Jon.”  Her low voice drew her words out slowly.  “I’ve been miserable without you.”

He groaned in response, tightening his grip to drive her down onto him harder, faster.  “Couldn’t agree more.”

She panted now, his hips driving up into hers each time she came down, palms flat on his abdomen to brace herself as she rode him with more force, fire starting to blaze in his groin and snake it’s way down his back.  It had been far too long for him to hold this back much longer, and he shifted his hand lower, thumb gliding down and around her bud as she gasped and hurried her pace, losing her rhythm a bit as her back started to arch.  She worked herself against him furiously, and as he felt her start to clench he was entranced by the sight of her, this fantastical thing he’d never even have imagined, and he felt it take her hard and fast, short cries pouring out of those sweet lips.

He wanted to cry tears of thanks because he was racing right after her, and he’d never been more relieved that she’d gotten there ahead of him, because he had no chance of stopping this.  It seared through him, something primal and exhilarating, her name the only recognizable thing in the jumble of things he was able to utter, feeling himself release into her in stuttering bursts as she rode it out of him, moving on him until he completely relaxed back against the pillows.

She climbed off of him, panting and collapsing next to him on her stomach, arm slung low on his torso as she calmed.  He lay there, staring at that wooden decking above him, wondering that he’d ever gotten on that boat leaving Dragonstone in the first place and left her side, his breathing slowing.

“Dany?”

She tilted her head.  “Hmmm?”

“When you flew in, on Drogon,” she propped her head up on her hands now, looking at him, listening, “it was the most amazing fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” 

She gave a little laugh, grinning at him.  “I’ve heard it’s impressive to see.”

He nodded, chuckling.  “When we go to this meeting with Cersei, you should fly in.”  He turned his head fully to her.  “Give her a good fucking scare before we start talking, hmm?”

She slid her hand across his chest, leaning into him and kissing that scar over his heart before smirking up at him.  “And Tyrion said you were just a pretty face.”

 

 

 

  
  
Chapter 4  
Summary:

I don't have any excuse anymore. Just basically a smut playground fronted by some feels. Dany POV post rescue, picks up at Eastwatch before Jon arrives back. No need to judge me, we're way past that now, I can't even regret it anymore.

  
  
Notes:

I don't know how we keep meeting like this but here's another silly attempt at plotsmut. :)

  
  


It was the first few hours that had been the hardest.  The silence as everyone had climbed down off Drogon’s back, the men that had traveled with Jon hauling themselves and the wight that had cost her greatly inside the Wall’s gates, and she’d just stood, frozen.  Drogon had remained next to her, and she just watched the snow fall, big fat flakes that landed on his great black scales then melted in seconds.  It had all hit her then, great gusts of grief and horror and terror that buffeted her sharply, that made her lean against Drogon to feel something solid underneath her. 

She could see it clearly, in those first minutes when the reality of what had happened sunk in.  The path to madness, to becoming the horrible thing her enemies accused her of being, to becoming the Mad King reborn was revealed to her in sharp detail because she was not made to bear all of this.  The very real possibility that her life was only meant to be an endless string of loss and betrayal, that she would never have anything good that she could keep, that everything she loved would be ripped from her for the rest of her life; That was what could break her. 

Daenerys had tasted ash in her mouth and a stir of rage, wild and out of control, ready to climb back on Drogon and burn everything she saw, to die here with Viserion and Jon if she must to destroy what had taken them from her.  She hadn’t realized Ser Davos had been standing there watching her, until he’d called her name, adding “I know what you’re thinkin’.”

She’d gritted her teeth and met his eyes, ready to tell him where he could put whatever he was about to say, but she’d seen an awful understanding in his eyes, someone staring at her who’d had everything taken from him as well.  She dropped her eyes, shame filling her at what she’d been considering, and started walking, trudging her way through the snow drifts between her and the gate, Davos coming to join her once she was far enough away from Drogon. He silently took her into the keep, taking the lead and avoiding the others as he wound through the halls.

 Daenerys had been blindly following, seeing nothing but the man’s back and numb with shock, but when he’d opened the door she knew.  This was Jon’s room, those were Jon’s things stacked by the spartan desk along the wall, that was the metal gorget that Jon wore, with the sigil of House Stark on either side of the neck piece.  She’d walked slowly over to it, trailing her fingers over the cold metal, tracing the direwolf’s profile.  She felt her eyes and nose burn, something furiously sad clawing it’s way up her chest and threatening to pull her under with it’s weight. 

Davos had started talking, then, telling her things about Jon that she hadn’t known, stories Jon hadn’t told her in their time together since that first night at Dragonstone.  She’d known he had a direwolf, an albino with red eyes named Ghost, but she hadn’t known that the men of the Night’s Watch believed Jon was a warg, that he could enter his wolf with his mind, command it, control it.  She’d known he’d defeated Ramsay Bolton to take back his home for his family, but she hadn’t known that he’d nearly beaten the man to death with his bare hands before stopping himself and letting the sister who’d nearly been destroyed by that monster deliver justice herself.

She’d known that he’d died at Castle Black, killed by his brothers, but she hadn’t know Davos had been there, that they’d all believed Jon truly gone and everyone had left the room holding Jon’s body.  She hadn’t known that Davos had left Jon and Ghost in that room believing Jon dead and opened the door to find him gasping for breath, terrified. 

Davos had told her of his time with Stannis Baratheon and the Princess Shireen, how Shireen had taught him to read, how the same priestess who’d raised Jon from the dead and brought him to her had also burned Shireen Baratheon alive as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light.  He’d told her how Jon had threatened to kill her if she ever returned to the North for the crime she had committed.

And then Davos had stood, grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked right into her eyes.  In a more commanding voice than she’d thought possible, he’d sternly told her, “Now you listen to me, Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons.  I’ve seen more impossible things happen in the time since I’ve met the King in the North than I ever dreamed possible.  I’ve seen the sorts of things I’ve only heard of in the stories Shireen Baratheon loved to read.  In the books they call them ‘heroics’.  That one was a real bugger for me to say right.”  He’d given her a twist of a smile.  “But what Jon Snow does?  What you do?  That’s heroics.  Things no one else could possibly do, and you do it anyway, no matter what the cost to yourself.”  He’d squeezed her shoulders, lowering his voice.  “Whatever it is that’s brought us all together, right here and now, it ain’t done with Jon Snow yet.  Not before the job’s done.”  Davos had released her then, with a firm nod, and walked to the door but held it open to leave.  “That mad fucker will find his way back here, you mark my words.” 

Davos had left then, and she’d lowered herself onto Jon’s bed, trying to breathe in and out regularly, turning her face into his pillow to find the smell of him, the smell of his skin that she’d grown used to before this mission, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.  She’d thought of the words of the kindly old smuggler that was Jon’s Hand, and tried very hard to foster a spark of hope, faith in heroics and impossible things.

She’d walked the top of the wall, searching the treeline for what seemed like hours, Jorah following her like a familiar ghost.  Her remaining two sons circled and called, grieving their loss as well, and she’d been ready to follow Jorah’s advice, knowing she needed to extinguish that small little ember in her chest that said ‘maybe’.  He’d promised her though, she thought, and Jon Snow kept his promises.

Then there he was, the horns sounding as his slumped figure advanced on an exhausted horse, the gates opening to bring him in to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and men rushing out to help him.  She’d rushed out a stream of orders, told Jorah to have all their party's belongings transferred to her ship, that the King was to be taken onboard as soon as possible and treated there, and that they were leaving this godsforsaken place as soon as they could.

Then Daenerys started breathing again.

\------------------

She stood near the window, watching the sun rise over the horizon, savoring the peace and quiet and the sound of his steady breathing from the bed behind her.  They’d cordoned themselves away in this little sanctuary of a room for the past three days, since he’d opened his eyes and told her he loved her and she’d found herself in his arms once more.  Thankfully Davos had asked no questions at all, just knocking when he left food for them and picking up items to take for washing.  She was grateful for his kindness, if Tyrion were here she’d have been forced to leave Jon by now, but Davos seemed to understand that they needed some time.

Daenerys turned at the sound of his groan, smiling as he opened his eyes, watching for it to dawn on him that she hadn’t put anything on when she’d come over to stand by this window, just because she’d wanted to see how he reacted.

“I know I’ve asked you this for days now.”  His voice was still raspy with sleep.

“Hmmmm?”  She turned her face back to the window so he wouldn’t see her struggle not to laugh.

“Is this real?  Not a dream, I mean.”  He sounded so earnest she had to look back, as he was now sitting in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and she found her heart clenching again, as it had so many times in the past few days when she looked at him and realized how close it had all been.  How close he had been to dying, how close she had been to losing him forever, and yet here he was.

“That depends, Jon Snow.”  She walked slowly, sinuously to the bed, his eyes following the sway of her hips and the bounce of her breasts with every step she took.  She’d spent far too many years in every manner of undressed state to be prudish about her own nudity, and she liked how it seemed to surprise him and entice him.  “Am I always naked in your dreams?”

He smiled mischievously at her, pulling back the blankets that covered him and pulling her into the cradle of his legs, bringing her back to lean against his chest.  “Not usually in the beginning, but definitely by the end.”  She laughed at his admission, snuggling back a bit into his chest and bringing her hands up to rest on the thighs on either side of her.

“Interesting.”  She slid a palm up to his knee, squeezing it.  “How long has the King in the North been having these sorts of dreams?  What were we doing?  Hmmm?”  He was silent, so she tilted her head back to kiss his neck, giggling a bit at the chagrined look on his face as she looked at him.  “You can tell me, Jon Snow, I won’t tell a soul about your dirty, lusty dreams about me.”

“You’re enjoying this, I can tell.”  He hung his head, forehead resting on her shoulder as he shook her head.  “I started having those dreams about you far sooner than would have been proper.”  Now she was very intrigued.  She turned her head to peek at him, the tips of his ears endearingly red as he hid his face.  Sometimes Jon Snow seemed fearless to her, the fierce warrior she’d seen tearing through dead men.  But sometimes, when they were alone, he was a shy boy as much as she was some swooning silly girl, and she knew what he meant.  He’d desired her, but hadn’t felt he deserved her, and he’d felt guilty for it.

Dany took a deep breath, steeling her resolve for what she was about to do.  She had no issue with sharing her body with him, however he wanted her.  She loved him, she was sure of that.  But feelings weren’t things she’d had much luck sorting out either, and talking about them or admitting to things that would make her vulnerable to someone else…she exhaled.  He had been very brave for her.  She could be brave, too.

“Alright, then, Jon Snow.”  She sat up a bit to twist around and look at his face.  He watched her, waiting for her to continue.  She smiled, a bit nervous.  “I’m going to confess something to you.  And you have to swear to me not to tease me about it.  Swear it.”  Dany poked a finger into his chest as she finished, a grave look on her face.

Jon chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned at her.  “I swear it.”

“Without smiling, Jon Snow.  I don’t believe you when you smile like that.”  He laughed fully now, sharply, then smoothed a hand down his face, palm covering his lips for a beat or two.  When he dropped it, his mouth was a serious line.

“I swear it.”  His voice was low, firm.  Dany nodded sharply, pressing her lips together tight so she wouldn’t smile.  She sighed and leaned back against his chest again, fitting the crown of her head into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder.

“That first day, on Dragonstone, I thought you had the loveliest, saddest eyes I’d ever seen.”  Her hand squeezed his thigh.  “It made me very angry.”  She could feel his chest shaking under her, knowing he was laughing and smiling then herself.  “I thought, ‘Oh, this is a very clever trick.  How very crafty these Northerners must be; they must already know that Daenerys Targaryen has had men throwing themselves at her for years in Essos.  We’ll send a comely King who will refuse to bend the knee and have the nerve to just stare at her with those lovely eyes in her own throne room.’  A cleverly devised plan, Jon Snow.”  She tilted her head in to press a kiss to his neck. 

Dany could feel him hardening against her back and pushed her hips back into him, just a bit.  “So I determined that I would not be swayed by these Northern tricks.  Tyrion convinced me to give you dragonglass, and so I did, and still you didn’t fall all over yourself to win me.”  She huffed, then ran her hands down his arms, lacing his fingers with hers.  “You put your hands on the ledge, when we were speaking.  And as soon as I saw them, much to my horror, all I could think was ‘I wonder what those hands could do to me?’  I was on to you by now, of course, seducing me with your stubbornness and accent and brooding on cliffs.”  She rubbed back against him, gently, feeling the full press of him against her, insistent by now. 

“After you left that ledge, I was so angry, so aggravated, so frustrated with all of it, that I went straight to my rooms.”  She brought their joined hands up to rest on her stomach.  “I stormed upstairs, told my guards I was not to be disturbed.”  Dany slid her fingers back and forth, making the tips of his brush against the sensitive skin of her abdomen.  “I took off all of my clothes.  Angrily.  As quickly as I could.”  She heard him take a deep breath, flicking her eyes up to see him staring at their joined hands intently.  “I climbed up on my bed, and lay back.”  She could feel her own arousal building, a twist of excitement at doing this with him, for him, letting him see her like this.  She guided their hands up to the tops of her breasts, trailing their enmeshed fingers along the soft skin.  She arched up, bringing her lips to his ear.  “Do you want me to show you what I did, Jon Snow?”

Jon’s answering “Yes” stuttered out on a breathy moan that made her clench her thighs together, the naked desire and need making her want to hear more, to bring that out of him. 

“Put your hands on your legs, Jon.”  He immediately complied with her breathy whisper, his attention now completely on her fingers as they trailed along the skin of her chest.  “I wondered how you would touch me, Jon.  So I closed my eyes, and tried to picture you there, before me.”  She drew her fingers lower, tracing the lower slopes of her breasts before cupping them in her hands, arching back against him and moaning low in her throat.  Her fingers came up to roll and pinch her nipples, already hard and yearning for him.  “I tried to picture your hands on me, like this.”

A groan vibrated behind her, and she felt him thrust against her slowly.  “I need to touch you, Dany.”

She panted against his neck, then shook her head.  She looked at the hands gripping his thighs, his knuckles whitening as she slid one hand down her stomach, teasing along her navel as she inched it lower.  “Not yet, Jon Snow, there’s more.”  They moaned together as her fingers parted the silver blond curls between her thighs, and she spread them a bit further apart, resting her legs against his as she turned her face towards his shoulder, eyes closing as the tips of her fingers slid along her slick folds.

“I thought about your hands here, Jon Snow, what you would do to me if you felt how wet I was for you, how much I wanted those hands all over me.”  She whimpered and ground herself back against him, barely slipping a finger into the moisture seeping from her and spreading it in circles along her slit and to the nub above, her hips circling faster as she kept her touch light.

“Dany.”  He ground her name out, an edge of desperation as he watched her hand as it moved, his hips sliding behind her seeking purchase.  She could feel his thighs trembling along her own, and desire surged hot through her, that she could excite him like this.  She felt beautiful, powerful.  She wanted him to touch her now, wanted those hands to bring her to release just as she’d wanted them to all those months ago, gasping and panting on her sheets, desiring him and hating herself for the weakness she thought she’d rid herself of.

“Touch me, Jon.”  He didn’t even wait for her to finish whispering his name, one of his hands moving to hotly palm her breast, the other pushing her hand out of the way and slipping into the wetness slipping down her, cursing under his breath when he felt how slippery she was.  She cried out, his name a sharp burst from her lips, when he slid two fingers into her, already well-practiced at what she wanted from him, his thumb sliding up to circle her swollen bud as his index and middle finger thrust into her. 

And Jon Snow did not disappoint, fingers curling and sweeping inside her in tandem with his thumb, her back curving sharply with the pleasure of it.  She threw her arm around his neck, clutching him to her as he licked at the skin of her neck, his groan muffled as he felt her coming around his fingers, her walls grasping and clutching at him fiercely as she wailed his named brokenly.  He kept stroking, circling, more slowly now as she relaxed back into him, satisfied but aching for that throbbing length at the base of her spine to fill her.

She flipped her body over then, grasping his neck with both hands as she brought their faces close, her legs coming down along either side of his hips to straddle him.  She brought her fingers down to grasp him, sliding her fisted hand slowly down to the base of his cock and his eyes screwed shut.  Before he could move she slammed herself onto him, swiftly and in one hard stroke that made him grab her hips tightly and grind her against him, not letting her draw back up to ride him.  “Did you think about me like this, Jon Snow?”

“Oh, fuck yes, Dany.”  He fastened his mouth to her neck, sucking hard as he loosened his pressure on her hips, allowing her to frantically ride him as he cracked his eyes open to watch her astride him.  Oh, he was close, she could tell.  His jaw was so tensed; she tasted the tendons standing out along his neck as he continued to lick and suck at hers.

“I did, too.  I thought about how it might feel to have you inside of me, filling me, fucking me.”  She brought her lips to his ear, moaning into the soft shell of his ear, “I couldn’t have known how good you would feel, couldn’t have imagined it.”  He drove up into her roughly at that, her voice that final push that had him rocking himself into her brokenly, hips flexing as he released into her, arching and panting her name.

She slowed her hips gradually, smiling down at him as he buried his face between her breasts, his slick skin sliding against hers as he calmed.  She stayed astride him, though, not releasing him quite yet.  Jon leaned back against the propped up pillows behind his back and neck, finally opening his eyes and peering up at her.

“That’s much earlier than I thought about it, you wicked girl.”  She crossed her arms over her chest in mock outrage, squeezing him intentionally to make him stop chuckling at her.

“I’ll have you know you are the only man I’ve ever had to actually throw myself at.”  She narrowed her eyes.  “Most men throw themselves at me, you know.”

Jon Snow growled low and brought his hands to her face, claiming her mouth in a wet, slow slide of lips and tongue.  “Not anymore they don’t.”

  



End file.
